“Why geography?” I asked.
“Pardon?” he said, coming out of his reverie.
“I know why computer science is a hot major, but why the minor in geography?”
He smiled. “Professor George Demko. I took his class just because it fit my schedule in my freshman year. Contagious enthusiasm, I guess. My two fields of study aren’t as far apart as you’d think.”
For the next few minutes, he talked to me about navigation and Polaris submarines and atomic clocks and the launch of something called a GPS satellite, which he said would someday be able to prevent anyone from ever being lost. Eventually he lost me-or noticed he had lost me-and laughed and said, “Sorry-now you do think I’m a nerd.”
“Not at all. Why apologize for being intelligent? I’m just sorry I couldn’t keep up with you.”
“I suppose I got on to GPS because I’ve been thinking about the Ducanes. Do you know their story?”
“Warren’s family?” I shook my head.
“His father, mother, and his brother-Todd-were all lost at sea.”
“That’s awful,” I said, looking over to where Warren stood, staring up in a melancholy way at a portrait above the mantel, a painting of a beautiful young woman who somehow looked familiar.
“That’s Kathleen,” Kyle said of the portrait. “Katy, I think they called her. Mrs. Linworth’s daughter, who died in the same boating accident. Her daughter was married to Todd Ducane. Do you really not know this story?”
“No.”
“Well, I didn’t, either, until Mr. Sheffield gave me some articles to read. Actually, O’Connor and your friend Helen wrote many of them. A sad story.”
He told me about the night the Sea Dreamer’s passengers and crew disappeared, and Max Ducane was kidnapped.
Standing in the same room with members of both families, seeing the portrait of a vivacious young woman who was near my same age when she died, knowing the reporters who wrote many of the stories-for a few moments, I was simply stunned, and overwhelmed with sympathy for Lily Linworth- who was transformed in my mind from “her highness” to a mother who had lost both child and grandchild-and for Warren Ducane, whose air of being a lost soul was now perfectly understandable. So much devastation wrought all at once would have been difficult for any family to cope with. Twenty years had passed, but they were twenty years without loved ones. Life would not, could not, have been the same after that night.
Within a few moments, though, my reporter’s instinct began to give me an itch. “Kind of strange, don’t you think?” I said to Kyle. “I mean, the kidnapping taking place on the same night?”
“You don’t know how strange it gets,” he said with feeling.
We were called in to dinner before he could say more. Helen sat between Auburn and O’Connor, while I was placed between Kyle and Warren, and Lily presided at the head of the table.
There was only small talk while we ate the meal-leg of lamb, which I must admit was gloriously prepared. We had just been served a dessert of fresh strawberries and whipped cream flavored with a hint of Grand Marnier when Kyle said to Lily, “Irene is too young, of course, but did Mrs. Corrigan and Mr. O’Connor know your son-in- law and daughter well?”
All the clatter of silverware ceased abruptly.
Lily said, “They knew Kathleen very well, yes. I haven’t broken my promise to you, though. I’m sure they’re wondering why you mention her.”
“Because he resembles her,” Helen said, openly staring at him now. “Especially when you get angry, Kyle. Or-I don’t know-seem especially determined.”
“What is this all about?” O’Connor said irritably.
“Mr. Ducane has a theory that I am his lost nephew,” Kyle said. “He’s such a believer in this theory, he offered me a substantial financial incentive to start calling myself Max Ducane.”
This announcement caused an argument to break out between O’Connor and Warren Ducane, consisting mostly of O’Connor calling Warren a fool and Warren calling O’Connor a busybody who had no say in the matter. It hadn’t gone very far when Lillian Linworth said, “I won’t say I’m without my doubts, Conn, but I’m inclined now to think that there is at least a possibility that Warren may be right.”
“Lily,” O’Connor said, in a far more gentle tone than the one he had been using with Warren, “I can see why you would want it to be true, but that doesn’t mean it is.”
“I’m enjoying being present while you refer to me as if I’m not,” Kyle said. “But I should point out to Mr. O’Connor that I haven’t said I’d accept Mr. Ducane’s offer.”
“He said no to us,” Auburn said.
“How coy,” O’Connor said.
“Lily, if you don’t mind,” Helen said, “I’ll ask Irene to take me home now. I’m-I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry,” Lily said. “I never meant for you to be upset by this, or to-”
“I know, dear. I know. Irene? Do you mind terribly if I cut this evening short?”
“Not at all-”
“I’ll take you, Helen,” O’Connor said. “I wouldn’t want Miss Kelly to miss any opportunities.”
“What are you saying?” I said.
“ ‘Substantial financial incentive’-isn’t that the way you put it, Mr. Yeager? Or is it now Mr. Ducane?”
I stood up, grabbed my bowl of strawberries and whipped cream, and pitched it at his face. He managed to get an arm up, which deflected the bowl enough to keep it from hitting him, but its contents kept sailing and reached the target. The bowl broke.
O’Connor didn’t say a word. He just stood up and left the table. I was horrified, but tried to keep my voice steady as I said, “Let me know how much that bowl cost,” to Lily, which for some reason made Warren and Kyle laugh and applaud.
“Ms. Kelly, I’d be pleased to replace that bowl,” Auburn said.
“No, really-I-and his suit. Oh God. His suit.”
“You leave these small problems to me,” he said. “It will give me pleasure to be of service to you. Just worry about getting Helen home, all right?”
Before I fled, Kyle asked for my number. I gave him my number at work.
As I drove Helen home, I began feeling worse and worse. She didn’t say anything until I pulled up in her driveway.
“It’s Jack, you know,” she said then.
For a moment, I thought she was hallucinating, seeing the ghost of her dead husband.
She looked at me and said, “Conn’s problem is Jack.”
“I don’t understand…”
“He’s not angry with you, Irene. He’s just angry and upset because Jack died. They were… oh, theirs was some wild combination of relationships. Father and son, older and younger brother, mentor and protege, friends, coworkers, drinking partners… and a real pair of hell-raisers. They used to back each other up in brawls-Jack would start the fight and Conn would finish it. Barbarian, some would say, but uncivilized or no, it was just one more part of the bond between them. Jack did a lot for Conn, but it’s just as true- perhaps truer-that Conn looked after Jack. Conn was one of the people with us when Jack had the stroke. I don’t think Conn has known what to do with himself since that moment. It has made him surly as hell. I’ve never seen him behave in the way he’s behaved lately. I’m worried about him.”
We sat in silence.
“What can I do, Helen?”
“Try to be patient with him. He’ll probably make that as hard as possible. But, Irene-oh, what he can teach you if you’ll let him! More than Jack or I could ever teach you. He’s got the gift. Lately, though… his writing is never poor, mind you, but his writing hasn’t been at its best since Jack died-except once.”
“The art story.”
“Yes. When he worked with you.”
“Not exactly with me…”
“Don’t quibble.”
“I keep insulting him. I…I don’t think he brings out the best in me.”
“Why are your stories better lately?”
